2019-03-14 - Hmm.

The local weatherman had called for a cool drizzle this afternoon and he wasn't that far off, though the sprinkle-showers started a touch earlier than expected. The door to the shop was cracked open enough to bring the scent of rain in; the awning above the door outside and the mat on the floor within kept most of the wet from coming in, though there'd undoubtedly be some damp paperbacks as a result. Still, Violet loves the rain, she's one of those people. It just puts her in a cheerful mood.

She tucks her feet under herself there on the big swivel chair behind the counter, one earbud in. Bach was her musician of choice, the slim fingers of one hand idly dancing through the air as the other turns another page in her book. This afternoon, she was dressed in something some meanie would dub 'grandma-chic' - a collared baby blue blouse underneath a warm wool off-white cardigan, an ankle-length black skirt. Her shoes were off, her feet encased in a pair of beige nylons, and she just looks comfy.

An umbrella passes by that open door, headed left from Violet's perspective, along the sidewalk out front, passing behind the visible frame of the shopfront. There are likely a decent number of umbrellas doing this all day, so that's probably NBD. This particular umbrella is paneled in blue-and-white, and the only reason it bears mention is, about fifteen seconds after it passes heading left, it comes walking back, stopping in front of the open door. The person under the blue-and-white umbrella is Alex, obviously, and he's looking down at his phone, then up at the open door, then down at his phone again. He does this a couple times before committing to crossing the threshold, pocketing his phone in his spiffy pea coat.

Closing the umbrella with a sense of impermanance - like, he collapses it, but he doesn't bind up the little string-thingie - Alex stands just inside, just enough to be out of the rain but not enough that he's really in the space. It means he can see this person behind the counter, but she's likely just a faceless generic shopkeeper-person glimpsed through dim light and a bunch of weird shit. His tone is clear: he thinks he already knows the answer to this question, but puts it out there anyway. "You don't sell bikes in here, do you." It's barely a question, more just 'confirm he's right, please,' hence the reason there's no question-mark at the end.

There's an apology for even almost-asking in his tone, but the scene'd be real short if he just walked off, so he puts it out there.

Violet was no longer looking out the door to the umbrella parade, though it had been a colorful one for awhile there. It means she does not see the blue-and-white paneled one pass by her window and turn back around, until it was already inside the door. She peeks up from the lip of the counter, owlishly big blue eyes behind thick black framed glasses, a polite smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. The fact that he doesn't really enter and instead just haunts her doorstep lends an air of mystery .. which is quickly solved by the statement he delivers.

"Oh, uhm," she has to think, a furrowing of pale gold brows created in the process. "Actually, I have two. A pair, I think, I found them together. One needs a wheel, the other a seat." She unfolds herself from the chair and leans over the counter, extending a slim finger to the far corner. He'll have to walk, maneuver through the maze, but the bicycles were there, one red one and one blue, exactly as she said they would be. "I don't think they are bonded," the pair, she means. It's a poor joke.

Well, color Alex surprised. He was all set to wheel around on his heel and stroll back out, had even gotten his hands reset on the umbrella to pop it back open by the time she gets beyond the oh-uhm and all the way around to the adverb. He leans toward it a little, actually...? And his brows climb, the heavy line of them pulled up while he tilts in the direction that finger points. So he finds somewhere to stash his umbrella, assuming there's a can or something by the door - 'cause what kind of shop in a place where it rains all the damn time wouldn't have one - and braves the interior chaos, working his way toward that corner. "Interesting." Not her joke. It was a little flimsy.

For a second, Alex has very obviously gotten himself turned around in here, and he leans around one of these bookshelves, orients himself with a look toward the open door, and there. He made it to the corner, where these two ex-bicycles are leaned. "You sell parts of bikes, then. How much for both?"

The wire from the single earbud still purring sweet melodies into her ear is twisted with a finger and pulled out before she tosses it upon the desk. Sorry, Bach, she'll be back when there is less noise. His 'interesting' is met with swift explanation - "I just meant that I doubt they would care if they were separated -- oh," her mouth forms an 'O' with that word and then quickly closes, lips pressing into a thin line. That's not what he meant, was it? She'll shut up now.

She shuffles in her nylon stockings to the edge of the counter while he loses himself in the maze, not quite escaping the confines of her corner - but instead she props an elbow upon the edge and leans to watch. The question of price has her tilting her head, gaze flitting from man to bikes and back to man again. "There's a tag. On the handlebars," it flutters there. The price is reasonable. "Times two."

Alex listens to the swift explanation, starting to open his mouth, but hey. She gets there on her own, so he winds up settling into a nod and a smile that makes sense in the circumstances: short-lived, a liiiittle awkward, but also polite enough not to dwell on said awkwardness, definitely polite enough not to straight up call her out on it. Moving on, he turns the price tag off one of these bikes onto his fingers, and he leans away from it like the thing just punched him in the face, even exhales a pained-sounding breath, tiniest bit of a whistle there at the edge of it. He looks away from the tag, then peeks at it again, in case it changed in the half-second that he wasn't looking.

Since it didn't, he drops it out of his fingers and rubs both hands together, borrowing a page from her book: he looks at the bikes, he looks at the woman, he looks at the bikes. "Hmm." Carefully (may not wanna buy it, sure don't wanna break it), he draws the seatless of the two out of the corner a little, unbuttoning his coat so he can crouch down next to it, touching a bunch of parts.

It's the awkward smiling that flares color to her cheeks; Violet is not a pretty blusher, it blossoms in splotchy circles and makes the tops of her ears turn red, but at least she doesn't run and hide behind the counter. The reaction to the price tag lifts her brows over top of her frames, and if there was a smile on her lips before it vanishes in that moment, something of a frown beginning to appear. "It isn't that much, is it?" She didn't sound uncertain, just confused, and she slips her arm off the edge of the counter to slip across the floor on those nylon stockings of hers.

She doesn't approach him, but instead keeps a low-lying bookshelf between them, leaning against it to peer as he starts molesting her bicycle. "I'd let you ride it outside, but I think that might be uncomfortable," on account of the missing seat. "I don't know anything about bicycles, but the chains weren't rusted. I think that's a good sign."

It isn't that much, but Alex says, "Hmm," again anyway, and he thumb-forefinger-pinches a link in the rust-free chain, looking intensely focused on this bike. Shifting, he braces a hand under the top-tube, lifting the back wheel off the ground just enough that, turning the pedal with his hand, he can confirm that it does, in fact, spin like it should. This is an awkward position he's in, so he only lets it go one full revolution of the pedal before lowering the whole thing back to the floor, which makes the bike skitter forward a little before he back-pedals and brakes it.

Straightening, looking down at his fingers for a second which now have a little bit of bike-dust on them - and he ain't about to wipe that stuff on his nice coat, so he rubs it across on the opposite palm, spreading it thin enough that it's not a problem - he pockets his hands and considers this deal. "The thing is," and he turns enough that he's facing her and the bookshelf barrier now, "I don't need two broken bikes. I need one working bike. So how much for this bike," he toes the front wheel, "and that seat," he lowers his forehead toward it. He wears a haggler's smile, open and receptive but also c'mon, let's wheel-and-deal here.

Violet keeps her head canted to one side, the ponytail of frizzy blonde locks swaying with the tilt of her head. And she watches as he picks the back wheel up off the ground to spin it with the pedal, the mental picture taken of this stranger in a snazzy pea coat shipped off to who-knows-where. The reply is swift, sudden, right there in her head and making her eyes flare open. It's not like she's not used to the voices, it's just that whatever is said catches her off-guard.

"What??"

Perhaps thankfully, the outburst is right on the heels of his 'let's make a deal'. Still, she claps her hand over her mouth and squeaks, turns about and rushes straight to the safety of her counter. "You can have it," she decides as she drops herself into the chair and disappears behind the counter's height. "The seat, you can have it. For the price of the bike." She tries not to die.

Whatever she heard catches her off-guard. The resultant outburst catches him off-guard. Alex leans away from it a touch, not unlike the way he pulled back from the price-tag, on this one is for realsies and not just for dramatic effect. His attention stays diverted her way while she mouth-claps, while she disappears back behind the safety of the counter, and there's no effort on his part not to pretend he didn't find that odd - like her being affronted by his suggestion that they haggle is tres bizarre. "Thank you," is where he lands on all that, and slooooowly moseys over toward the counter, finding his wallet along the way.

But he's a fixer. Not like 'i sit around all day breaking shit in my haunted house so i have stuff to keep myself occupied' kinda fixer, but a 'this person seems broken, i better do something about it' fixer, so his interest is piqued by her performance. All of that to explain why he doesn't just nicely let it go. Instead, while catching a few bills out of his wallet, he looks across at her - at proximity, at last! - and asks with genuine interest, "Is everything okay?" He probably has good bedside manner; he looks at her directly and wears a credible, judgment-free expression.

While thinking she might be a nutter. A cute nutter, but still a nutter.

Violet was dwarfed by the counter, and rightfully so, considering she was doing her very best to sink low into her chair, feet tucked beneath her. It was really just short of her forming a puddle beneath the counter, though that option wasn't completely off the table yet. There were ugly red splotches all over her face - what kind of girl doesn't blush prettily anyway? - and she was fussing with some of that frizzy hair to hide the tops of her ears which she was certain were glowing like beacons. But hiding was really no good when this was her shop and he had to pay for the bike, so it shouldn't have been a surprise when he comes up over the counter to stare at her with non-judgey, overly concerned eyes.

"What? No, I'm fine," she insists, blinking owlishly large blue eyes up at him. But not directly at him. She has found a perfectly suitable spot to stare, right on the top of his left ear. It almost looks as though she's making eye contact. But she's definitely not. Tricksy, this one. "It was just a thought, do you ever have those?" And then, upon realizing how that sounds, she jerks her gaze down to the ledger in front of her. "I mean of course you have thoughts, everyone has those. I mean the kind that creep up on you, and surprise you. That's all. You'll be paying cash?" she yanks the ledger towards her, flips it open, and reaches for a pencil. "I don't have a credit card machine," she adds like it matters, since he literally has cash in his hand.

Somehow, in all that, Alex manages to squeeze in a mild, "Mhm." He has thoughts. Then she's following up the question with clarification, but still; it's important that he affirms the existence of the occasional thought. While she's doing all this not-pretty blushing and looking everywhere else, he'll just keep on looking at her like this is perfectly normal. Hell, he'll even nod a little bit like he followed along just fine and all of that made perfect sense. It didn't, but she'd never know it to look at him, wearing a mild smile and holding an appropriate number of bills in between his fingers, which he then extends across the counter to her, the other hand putting his wallet back where it came from.

Let this go, Alex. Just get your broken bike and stroll on out, chalk it up to the rain and Siri telling you this was a good place to buy a used bike, and that bitch lies. Plus, this counter is taller than is strictly necessary, and that's aggravating in a very small way, so just let mosey on out, sir, and leave crazy to her store full of broken stuff and dust.

Or just don't listen to the inner monologue that has your best interests at heart, that's fine, too. "I'm sorry. Did I say something? Or do something here?" With the confusedly narrowed eyes now, the fingers laced together on top of the counter-wall between them, the pads of his thumbs tapping together a couple times. He's clearly struggling with her twitchiness. Good-looking doctors typically gets warmer receptions.

Violet catches her bottom lip between her teeth as she reaches up to take the extended bills, doing all of this exceptionally well without her eyes on the target. She was definitely no longer looking at him, not even trying to pretend to make eye contact, her attention fully focused on the ledger. One bike, one bike seat, a note scribbled in the margins to reduce the price of the bicycle's the wheel-less and now seat-less brother, or perhaps sister, she wouldn't want to misgender. It was all very efficient, her handwriting neat, her thoughts in order. The cash is folded and tucked away into a drawer, and she even finds a smile to fit upon her lips when she straightens in her seat to say goodbye to the strange handsome gentleman in the nice pea coat.

Except the words do not leave her. Or, perhaps, they formed too late on her tongue and were lost in his questions, her bottom lip worried again under the scruntiny of his narrowed gaze. "I.." she twitches, she fidgets with the spiral binding of her ledger, and she blinks blue eyes up to him. "I'm sorry, you didn't do anything. I'm just not very good with people," and since she tends to overshare when she's nervous, continues: "My sister, that's her job. Being the people person, everybody used to always like her. She'd do a better job with this, really. Much better. I mean, she thinks.." pump the brakes there, sweetheart. Her nose crinkles. "I mean I'm sure she would think that you are .. very nice and .." Something makes her flinch behind the glasses. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Alex shifts forward enough, the better to lean on this counter. Which should be shorter, Violet, please work on it. And accepts her whole answer with commendable good grace, so unflappable that even his thumbs quit tapping against one another, though he does rub one against the other a couple times while she's going on... and then on some more... about the sister that's nowhere in evidence. "Okay, well," with a small laugh that works very hard to put this poor woman at her ease, or at least to insist that he's still at his own ease. "Tell your sister that I'm sure I would think she's very nice, too."

He unfolds his hands about then, hesitates for a half-beat, then - fuck it, he extends his arm across the counter, dropping his hand down in the space in front of her at the end of that arm. "No, I'm not," from around here. "My name's Alex, and you should know that your shop comes up on Yelp-searches for used bike shops." Which is what started all this, amusing him enough to lift an apologetic shrug at her for that explanation. Shake his hand now, Violet, or else this is going to get awkward enough to overcome that composure-check.

It was a very tall counter, but it was clear they had very opposite feels about it at the moment. Violet liked the fact that she could easily disappear behind it; when she scrunches down in the chair, only the crown of her pale blonde head could be seen. Besides, he had several inches on her (but not in her 🙁 ) and so he really shouldn't complain; she could see him just fine, and that meant he could see her just fine. And suddenly she wished this counter was a little bit taller.

Her breath hitches in her throat when that laugh of his works its way out, her body shifting in the chair with a nervous fidget that worsened when he extends his arm across the counter. Her eyes drop to his hand, inspecting the shape of it with quick, efficient glances - and she pulls in a breath and holds it, counts to ten and lets it go and fits her hand into his. Her skin is cool, soft, but the handshake is firm. It is also quick. "I'm Violet," she offers. "And my shop comes up on Yelp-searches for a lot of things. I need to keep business coming through the door, it's a small town," she smiles, the faintest show of a dimple in either of her cheeks.

She lifts her gaze to meet his eyes for half a moment. Enough for the snap of another mental picture, and wherever it is sent - and whatever comes back - makes her cheeks splotchy again. "It's nice to meet you, Alex. I.. I'll tell my sister. The thing that you said. I promise."

Yeah, well, Alex frequently wishes he was a little bit taller; if that counter somehow winds up taller before he does, there will come a reckoning, mark my words.

He leans forward just a little over the counter (which I think we've discussed enough for now) and says authentically, "It's nice to meet you, Violet. I like your name." And he's not gonna muscle her into a longer handshake, just the a quickie'll do for now. Taking his hand back, he uses it to point with his thumb toward the bike he just bought, leaning into steps that start him back in that direction. But not without asking, "This may be a long shot, but." Want to bang on your too-tall counter?! Got something he can stand on? Could be fun! "Do you have a wrench around here anywhere?" He even pantomimes the movement for her, in case she's not familiar with the term wrench and/or too frazzled to make it make sense right now. He's going to go take the seat off the other bike, see, and a wrench would make it a much smoother process.

Plus, he could use the bench to build himself a step-ladder.

The real question for Alex is ... does he ever wish he were a baller?

Violet instinctively leans back as he leans forward, a see-saw effect. It pushes her back against the swivel chair, blinking blue eyes up at him. "You do?" as though him liking her name was strange, unusual. "My sister's name is Alice," even though he didn't ask. But then there was talks of wrenches and thank GOD he used the hand motions else she might've never known what he wanted! "Oh, uhm," those pale brows slump into a furrow and then she stretches up to peek over the lip of the counter. "Yes," she decides, slipping off the chair and onto her nylon toes, tip-toeing around the counter that was too tall for him and way too tall for her. She manuevers the clumsy mess of shelves and furniture and books with ease, to a wicker basket on a low shelf. She stoops, she digs, and there's the sound of metal clunking against metal before she finds it. The wrench. She holds it aloft as though it were the holy grail of wrenches and required worshipping.

"Here," she fits a smile to her lips again, sans dimples, as she winds her way back through the maze to him. The wrench's head was rusted, but it would still probably work to pry off a bike seat, assuming he knows how tools work. "I come up on Yelp searches for used tools, too," she jokes (poorly) with a smile.

Oh, are we back on her sister again? Alex takes it with good grace, as seems to be his custom, only letting fall a very small laugh (more an exhale through his nose paired to a polite smile) while he crouches down next to the other bike, the one he's about to partially dismantle; "Tell her that she has my sympathy, from one Al to another." He looks up at her from his crouch, pulling a face to match that sympathy of which he spoke. When you're conscientious about your own shoes, you do tend to notice things about other people's, or - in this case - the lack thereof, so he glances at the stocking-feet (brow-twitch), then up from there to the wrench she's holding like it's going to give everlasting life, then to the hand he holds out toward her, palm up, waiting receive this rusted relic. "Thank you."

Since he knows how to work the thing, he'll set to doing that with a courtesy chuckle for her second attempt at a joke. That one had a little more oomph, at least. "I bet. How much for the wrench, Violet? I may as well make a day out of it, since I'm here." Sorry, bicycle. He needs this seat more than you do, and pops the nut loose.

[insert joke here]

"Sympathy?" This lifts pale gold brows above the rims of her glasses, as she looks down upon him while he crouches in front of the bike. Thankfully, she didn't have to look very far down - after all, even if he was a midget, she was one too. "She likes her name. You should like your name, too. It's very.." A pause for a thought. "Normal." It's meant to be a compliment, her cheeks even dimple with the smile that comes after the period. But then she notices the brow-twitch in association with her stocking-feet, and she tucks one behind the other as though she could somehow disappear her feet up into her skirt.

"I.." Her attention drifts to the work he's doing on the bike, the efficient way that he handles his tool. There's a rather keen focus on his hands; she'll take a mental snapshot of that too, thankyouverymuch, but that one's not sent out into the ether to be shared. That one's just for her. "You're very good with it," she swallows, takes a sliding step back. "The wrench. You can have it, the bike was probably overpriced anyway." But too late now because he's already paid her in cash.

"Hmm," he says again. What's that put the count at? Three? Four? Alex uses that little monosyllable to good effect, right now paired to a teeter of his palm - take more mental pictures, he's fine with it, doctora-hands, don'tchaknow - and the comment, "Alex is fine. Alice is great. But Al? Who wants to be Al?" He narrows his eyes, shakes his head, denies the notion that he, at least, wants to be Al. Straightening, he takes the seat and the bolt and the nut over to the other bike, putting all these things together again. The seat-holder-thingie wants to be a pain, so he has to lean his weight onto his elbow and his elbow onto the seat before it all fits into place. More jokes write themselves, fail to get made.

Again, "Thank you. I promise to give it a good home." He holds a look on her for a second, as if sternly, when she uses the word overpriced, breathing out slowly through that squint. As if he's just come to this decision, "I'll leave that out of my Yelp review." And, chuckling, makes use of his new wrench again, fitting securing the seat in place with another crouch and a couple twists. Ta-dah. He tests the seat with his palm; it wiggles, but he shrugs, satisfied.

"Hmm," Violet replies in turn, as though she were testing out the way that monosyllable feels upon her own lips. It didn't have the same effect really, it was just a soft hum upon her lips, before she answers the question that didn't actually beg for any answer at all: "Scarface." It's such a simple response, it rolls right off her tongue, and her face brightens with a smile that really deepens the dimples in her cheeks. She even laughs, just a tiny bell of a sound, before she smothers it behind the palm of her hand and focuses on his hands instead of her terrible, terrible jokes.

But the wrench, it's a gift, and she tilts her head to meet his gaze once the laughter fades and the smile goes with it, her hand dropping back to her side. "That's important," giving things a good home, perhaps. Or maybe what he's going to leave out of his Yelp review. It's unclear. But hey! He's fixed the bike, and she feels safe to skitter backwards towards the safety of her too-tall counter. "You are a good fixer," she offers up. "You could come back. I always have something around here that needs to be fixed."

Alex puts the wrench in the inner pocket of his coat, but not before he uses it to shake in her general direction, like his point is important enough to need a physical underscore. "His name was Tony," with a baaaad Pacino impression there. Not just Tony, but Tony, "Choo know? Choo dunno." That's when he pockets the wrench, slipping it in like a glock, and finishing the gesture but straightening again, heeling up the kickstand on his now fully functional bicycle.

He starts it toward the door, listening to the click-click-click of gears that could probably use a little WD-40. His eyes do a quick sweep around the immediate surroundings, but no WD-40 seems to be jumping out at him, so he'll just take his chances. All the way to the door, clicking carefully so as not to wreck all Violet's stuff while she's telling him what a good fixer he is. His back's mostly turned, so she can't see that he appreciates the compliment with a little smile, but he does - appreciates the compliment, and wears a little smile for it. "Okay," because he could come back. And he will come back, 'cause weird-cute-woman with that sparkle thingie invites you to come back? You come back. Right now, though, he has to loop the little nylon-loop from the handle of his umbrella over the rubber thingie on his handlebars.

Should be fun to ride to the crazy-house where he stays in this weather. At least those fucking nuts will probably be too busy doing whatever the fuck they do all day to pay him much mind.

The impression, as bad as it was (and it was truly horrible!), gets an honest laugh out of Violet that she buries into the palm of her hand. Choo dunno, indeed. But there's a little sparkle in her eyes that reflects in a blur against the glass of her eye-wear and thus ruins the effect, while he carefully click-click-clicks his bicycle to the door. "It was nice to meet you, Alex!" she offers to his back while she skedaddles to the counter, to sink back into her chair .. but not to disappear.

No, for a moment, she tucks her feet underneath her and sits on her heels, stretching herself up prarie dog style. It lets her pale golden blonde head peek out from over the counter, so that she can steal one last look at his pea coated self, and send another mental snapshot along into the ether. The answer bounces back, but in her delight, Violet's far too receptive .. and loops in a connection that she doesn't mean to make.

Which is why, as Alex rolls his new bike out the door? He'd hear two voices in his head, hushed girlish laughter like sisters sharing secrets in the dark. <<Sooo hot>> laughs one, and then the other <<I know right? I think he'd like you>>.

Alex smoothly, so smoothly crashes into the exterior wall of Violet's shop while he's trying to get his new bike going. Because of the rain. And because he's not familiar with this exact bike.

Not because that was super fucking weird. He, uh, has no idea how to play being turned into a psychic antennae... so he just gets the bike back up off the wet sidewalk, knocking the heel of his hand against his ear a couple times, like he's trying to jiggle some water loose outta there. No one's around to hear him tell himself that this town's fucking weird, and also gdi, he totally got his coat muddy in that fumble. And he really likes this coat. 🙁

Whatever, he pedals to his temporary home in the rain. To digest this.

At least the nutters in his temporary home can't put words in his head 😉

Christ, imagine if they could.